An Open Letter to Beth Kassab, Orlando Sentinel Reporter

February 27, 2013

On 2/24/2013, Beth Kassab, Orlando Sentinel reporter, published a story “What we know one year after Trayvon Martin shooting.”

Ms. Kassab,

Re: What we know one year after Trayvon Martin shooting

In short, “we” know a hell of a lot more than you seem to as reflected in your piece.

These “the truth is somewhere in the middle” pieces are so devoid of thoughtfulness and actual understanding of the facts that have been released in the wake of the tragedy, all I can say is that your piece was LAZY and intellectually incurious.


What we now know about you as a writer….


1) You don’t know the difference between race and ethnicity.
Zimmerman IS white, being ½ Hispanic doesn’t change that, & even if it did, that doesn’t mean he couldn’t be racist against blacks.


2) You’re ignorant about how racism manifests itself

Serino asking “You got any problems with black people?” does not mean the SPD adequately considered racial motivation.

3) This case DOES fit many of the molds of a racially motivated crime. Unfortunately someone like Zimmerman is not unique and neither is the victimology of Trayvon.

Zimmerman’s behavior was SOOoo prosaic anyone should’ve been able to see this coming. The truth is, someone devoid of racist thoughts, wouldn’t have seen Trayvon as being suspicious. Not to the degree where they’d feel justified calling the police and stalking and pursuing another human being in the menacing manner and to the degree Zimmerman did Trayvon. It was Zimmerman’s surety of Trayvon’s “type” that gave him the hubris to behave so aggressively It doesn’t take a social genius to see what was at play there. And writers like you have a duty not to be so obtuse about it.


Facts released have shown that Zimmerman has had issues with racism in his past. It may be difficult to prove racism that reaches a level of being prosecutable, but that does not mean that his racism is no longer self-evident when examining what led to the tragedy on 2/26/2012

The problem is, there are a lot of “marginally” racist guys like Zimmerman out there, and the failure of shallow thinkers/writers to see that even “mild racism” is inherently dangerous, as it was to Trayvon, is a serious negligence in journalism today. Writers like you have a higher duty than to write pieces that put forth such false equivalences & feigned “moderation”, as you did with this one.

The truth is, among other things this case really IS “about a black teen who was shot and killed for no reason except that a Neighborhood Watch volunteer who presumed all black teens were inherently suspicious” & as more evidence comes out, Wolfinger in particular WAS “either apathetic or bigoted Sanford SA who told cops to sit on their hands instead of arresting the known killer—and they did. For God’s sake, they never even bothered to impound Zimmerman’s truck and collect evidence from it.

READ MORE

Featuring Lonnie Starr and his Theory of the Trayvon Martin Case

Lonnie Starr has been working this case displaying high intelligence with the focus and determination of a dog working a bone. Pity the hapless and extremely over-matched defendant and his defense team. Just don’t get carried away feeling sorry for them.

He also has written the two White House petitions seeking a federal investigation of the defendant for violating Trayvon Martin’s civil rights and an end to the SYG laws.

Here is his theory of the case as he presented it in two comments this morning on the Tempest in a Teapot thread. Please read it and join the discussion below.

If you like this article, please consider sharing and liking it by clicking on the buttons immediately below and making a financial contribution by clicking on the yellow donation button in the upper right part of this page just below the blue banner containing my name and the name of the blog.

Thank you.
Fred
*************************
Unlike most investigators, I gather facts and work forward from there, creating an imaginary narrative that puts all the facts in place. Then I examine the details that don’t fit, and I then work backwards to see where they can be fitted. After I have a good narrative that accounts for as much as I can, then I sort of try to view it “from the side lines”, looking for the nexus of critical details, in other words, if this had happened, then this is what had to have been taking place as well. Then you take a closer look at what had to have happened along side what did happen, and if the narrative is false, insurmountable obstacles/anomalies appear.

Evidence can only lie by being contrived to give a false impression. People, however, have more options to falsify. So, believe the evidence more than the people who observe it, but only believe the evidence itself, if you cannot imagine that it has been contrived. If it is possible to contrive evidence, then it is possible to fool witnesses, and this is exactly the objective of the criminal mind.

So, you work backward, then forward and backwards again and take looks from the sides, it’s like panning for nuggets of gold. The chaff and waste eventually washes away, leaving the hard stuff behind.
It puzzled me for a long time, why a law student, would go out on a hunt that both the law and the rules of NW definitively prohibited. What would be the percentage in that? He’d have broken every rule and the law besides! How could he think that would make him a hero? When, any fool could see, all he’d wind up with is a harmless kid being held, who had a right to be in the neighborhood. What could he possibly do in that event? The answer is, kill the kid! That’s the only thing that prevents the comparisons from being made. But that is only a stall, since the truth would probably come out anyway.

So then, what does GZ need to make the planned hunt okay, despite the laws and the rules? The answer is: evidence that a crime had been committed. So then the question is “what kind of crime can be carried and displayed under a wide variety of circumstances”? The answer is: Bloody wounds! They can be claimed to have happened outside of the sight of any witnesses who later appear. They are hard to refute because, it’s hard to believe that a “pillar of the community” would actually harm himself, for the purpose of misleading the public, about a crime, it doesn’t appear he would or could plan.

But think about it, if George leaves his house bleeding from carefully designed wounds, he has a “crime” that can be used in a variety of ways, to excuse all breaking of rules and justify breaking the law as well. Those wounds were designed to shield him from the prohibitions of rules and laws. But, because they were created before any other actions were taken, they must not be professionally examined, if the time of their creation could be determined at all. This means that the creation of these wounds could not be left to chance. They are an integral part of the nights activities, however or whatever else happens. Only the how of obtaining them need be changed to fit what actually takes place.

This leaving home on the hunt for this project, is a “high octane” emotional performance, that required dedicated intent. It is likely that medication and alcohol, which lowers inhibitions and increases calm, would be taken to steady the nerves. If so, it adds yet another reason why the ER must be avoided at all costs, and of course, to accomplish that, the wounds must be and remain superficial, and not require professional treatment.

Next up is GZ undoing himself. He rehearsed a plausible story, probably several. As a NW, who knows that he cannot be either on patrol or following, he leaves home with a story about going shopping. To cover up notification, he “spots” his target over by FT’s cut through, a good story for night time affairs, since it comes through a “strange” area. (Of course, we are later to learn it wasn’t so strange to find people walking that way at all).

But George has his bloody head wounds to shield himself, which ever way the story plays out. The first problem arises, he can’t find the target, where he has been told to look. So he retraces his path, looking to pick up the trail. (tchoupi’s work), His fellow Watchers see his predicament and call him to correct his error, by pointing out that the target is still there at the mailboxes. George goes back and spots him, and there the play begins.

According to the script, GZ needs to frighten his target into engaging actions that can be portrayed as strange. He accomplishes this by shining his lights on the target as he shelters in the mail shed. Unbeknownst to GZ, however, his target is on the phone and gives notice of GZ’s hostile presence. So, an explanation of TM’s actions from that point onward are explained. Bad news for GZ!

When TM leaves the shelter of the mail boxes, it is actually raining harder than it was when he first got there. Meaning he was already spooked. But he contains himself enough to walk, probably out of GZ’s sight before he actually runs. However, GZ has his little defense shield in place, and since this gives him the lattitude he needs to break the rules and the law, he sets up the scene with “he’s running” to the NEN operator, then he exits his car. This one cannot get away, because George has intentions that will not allow it to happen that way. Meanwhile TM is unaware of how dangerous the situation really is, so he quickly assesses that not seeing GZ, means that he’s no longer being followed, and continues his walk home. Only to find GZ behind him again.

GZ intends to grab and hold TM for the police, using his wounds as a reason and lawful cause for doing so. That would make him a hero, if it would play out that way. Only trouble was, TM was still extremely childish far beyond his years. If only TM was more mature, the story would have worked. But, since TM was so extremely childlike, the planned story would quickly reveal as absurd. A whining, crying child asking for his momma, isn’t going to sell as a thug of any kind. GZ blames TM’s lack of maturity for inexplicably thwarting his heroic plans and decides that TM’s demeanor and character must not be allowed to display. By killing TM he accomplishes, preventing immediate challenge to his claims of attack, while making himself the only credible witness of all the events of that night.

GZ had a well rehearsed story, for how things transpired. In his drug and alcohol induced state, he can do no more than recite it verbatim. It all occurred at the “T”, where he did not follow TM, but was instead attacked while attempting to retreat. The trouble is, he was unable to modify the story as needed, thus he cannot account for the fact that the body is 40.5 feet away from where it needs to be, for the purpose of his well rehearsed story.

This story could have easily been modified to account for this distance south of the ‘T’, but Georges becalmed state, as evidenced by his bio stats, precluded critical thinking.  READ MORE IN THE COMMENTS AT THIS SITE CLICK HERE

Trayvon

Lost in all the horrible politics surrounding his death is the story of a boy. Before he became yet another flash point in America's painful and never-ending racial drama, Trayvon Martin was just a normal teenager. Here, at last, is the story of what was lost on that February night.

By John H. Richardson

Published in the December 2012 issue

He wanted something sweet, he wanted to get out of the apartment for a while. He slid open the glass door of the patio and slipped out into the steamy Florida twilight, an ordinary thing on an ordinary night.

Trayvon Martin was three weeks past seventeen that day, which was the day a stranger named George Zimmerman shot him through the heart. He was growing so fast, he'd stretched out like a rubber band, 158 pounds on a five-eleven frame, so long and thin everyone teased him: Boy, you too skinny to take a breath.

He was wearing the hoodie he always wore, lost in his music like he always was. People teased him about that, too. Next door to his uncle Stephen's house, a modest ranch house where he often spent the night, lived an old lady who called him Mouse.

Don't you ever talk? Say something.

Trayvon would just grin.

He strolled down the narrow cement path between two buildings. Trayvon didn't live there, he was just visiting, so it was all fairly new to him. Double glass doors faced the area from apartments on both sides, little white fences separated each little yard, central-air units hummed, televisions lit the curtains with their blue glow. Sometimes a Big Wheel tricycle sat forgotten in the path.

The complex looked nice. The buildings were two or three stories, with neat little lawns with neat little borders. No visible garbage bins, a clubhouse, a little lake. Not as nice as the luxury complex just across the no-man's-land where no one had bothered to build a sidewalk, but pretty nice for a kid from the modest side of Miami Gardens. Last night he had a long talk with DeWayne, his buddy from pee-wee football. DeWayne asked what he was doing.

Just chillin' with my ol' boy, Trayvon said. Trayvon's dad was dating a woman who lived there, a woman named Brandy, and it was looking serious. If he had to change high schools again to move up there, he said, it would be a'ight.

When he got to the gate of the complex, he could have slipped through the pedestrian gate. It wasn't locked. Even after the shooting, they never locked it. Florida is geared to cars, and Trayvon was still a BMX kind of guy. He tooled all around Miami Gardens on that little bike, standing on the pegs or doing the cat-walk wheelie on one wheel. And there was no sidewalk most of the way, just a lumpy depression in the grass, so why walk along the road? A man on foot could walk through trees and sand halfway to the 7-Eleven.  <a href=" http://www.esquire.com/features/americans-2012/trayvon-martin-1212">  READ MORE </a>

Published in the December 2012 issue
He wanted something sweet, he wanted to get out of the apartment for a while. He slid open the glass door of the patio and slipped out into the steamy Florida twilight, an ordinary thing on an ordinary night.
Trayvon Martin was three weeks past seventeen that day, which was the day a stranger named George Zimmerman shot him through the heart. He was growing so fast, he'd stretched out like a rubber band, 158 pounds on a five-eleven frame, so long and thin everyone teased him: Boy, you too skinny to take a breath.
He was wearing the hoodie he always wore, lost in his music like he always was. People teased him about that, too. Next door to his uncle Stephen's house, a modest ranch house where he often spent the night, lived an old lady who called him Mouse.
Don't you ever talk? Say something.
Trayvon would just grin.
He strolled down the narrow cement path between two buildings. Trayvon didn't live there, he was just visiting, so it was all fairly new to him. Double glass doors faced the area from apartments on both sides, little white fences separated each little yard, central-air units hummed, televisions lit the curtains with their blue glow. Sometimes a Big Wheel tricycle sat forgotten in the path.
The complex looked nice. The buildings were two or three stories, with neat little lawns with neat little borders. No visible garbage bins, a clubhouse, a little lake. Not as nice as the luxury complex just across the no-man's-land where no one had bothered to build a sidewalk, but pretty nice for a kid from the modest side of Miami Gardens. Last night he had a long talk with DeWayne, his buddy from pee-wee football. DeWayne asked what he was doing.
Just chillin' with my ol' boy, Trayvon said. Trayvon's dad was dating a woman who lived there, a woman named Brandy, and it was looking serious. If he had to change high schools again to move up there, he said, it would be a'ight.
When he got to the gate of the complex, he could have slipped through the pedestrian gate. It wasn't locked. Even after the shooting, they never locked it. Florida is geared to cars, and Trayvon was still a BMX kind of guy. He tooled all around Miami Gardens on that little bike, standing on the pegs or doing the cat-walk wheelie on one wheel. And there was no sidewalk most of the way, just a lumpy depression in the grass, so why walk along the road? A man on foot could walk through trees and sand halfway to the 7-Eleven.


Read more: Trayvon Martin Family Interview - Trayvon Martin Aftermath - Esquire http://www.esquire.com/features/americans-2012/trayvon-martin-1212#ixzz2DXLaLFzI

Published in the December 2012 issue
He wanted something sweet, he wanted to get out of the apartment for a while. He slid open the glass door of the patio and slipped out into the steamy Florida twilight, an ordinary thing on an ordinary night.
Trayvon Martin was three weeks past seventeen that day, which was the day a stranger named George Zimmerman shot him through the heart. He was growing so fast, he'd stretched out like a rubber band, 158 pounds on a five-eleven frame, so long and thin everyone teased him: Boy, you too skinny to take a breath.
He was wearing the hoodie he always wore, lost in his music like he always was. People teased him about that, too. Next door to his uncle Stephen's house, a modest ranch house where he often spent the night, lived an old lady who called him Mouse.
Don't you ever talk? Say something.
Trayvon would just grin.
He strolled down the narrow cement path between two buildings. Trayvon didn't live there, he was just visiting, so it was all fairly new to him. Double glass doors faced the area from apartments on both sides, little white fences separated each little yard, central-air units hummed, televisions lit the curtains with their blue glow. Sometimes a Big Wheel tricycle sat forgotten in the path.
The complex looked nice. The buildings were two or three stories, with neat little lawns with neat little borders. No visible garbage bins, a clubhouse, a little lake. Not as nice as the luxury complex just across the no-man's-land where no one had bothered to build a sidewalk, but pretty nice for a kid from the modest side of Miami Gardens. Last night he had a long talk with DeWayne, his buddy from pee-wee football. DeWayne asked what he was doing.
Just chillin' with my ol' boy, Trayvon said. Trayvon's dad was dating a woman who lived there, a woman named Brandy, and it was looking serious. If he had to change high schools again to move up there, he said, it would be a'ight.
When he got to the gate of the complex, he could have slipped through the pedestrian gate. It wasn't locked. Even after the shooting, they never locked it. Florida is geared to cars, and Trayvon was still a BMX kind of guy. He tooled all around Miami Gardens on that little bike, standing on the pegs or doing the cat-walk wheelie on one wheel. And there was no sidewalk most of the way, just a lumpy depression in the grass, so why walk along the road? A man on foot could walk through trees and sand halfway to the 7-Eleven.


Read more: Trayvon Martin Family Interview - Trayvon Martin Aftermath - Esquire http://www.esquire.com/features/americans-2012/trayvon-martin-1212#ixzz2DXLaLFzI

Published in the December 2012 issue
He wanted something sweet, he wanted to get out of the apartment for a while. He slid open the glass door of the patio and slipped out into the steamy Florida twilight, an ordinary thing on an ordinary night.
Trayvon Martin was three weeks past seventeen that day, which was the day a stranger named George Zimmerman shot him through the heart. He was growing so fast, he'd stretched out like a rubber band, 158 pounds on a five-eleven frame, so long and thin everyone teased him: Boy, you too skinny to take a breath.
He was wearing the hoodie he always wore, lost in his music like he always was. People teased him about that, too. Next door to his uncle Stephen's house, a modest ranch house where he often spent the night, lived an old lady who called him Mouse.
Don't you ever talk? Say something.
Trayvon would just grin.
He strolled down the narrow cement path between two buildings. Trayvon didn't live there, he was just visiting, so it was all fairly new to him. Double glass doors faced the area from apartments on both sides, little white fences separated each little yard, central-air units hummed, televisions lit the curtains with their blue glow. Sometimes a Big Wheel tricycle sat forgotten in the path.
The complex looked nice. The buildings were two or three stories, with neat little lawns with neat little borders. No visible garbage bins, a clubhouse, a little lake. Not as nice as the luxury complex just across the no-man's-land where no one had bothered to build a sidewalk, but pretty nice for a kid from the modest side of Miami Gardens. Last night he had a long talk with DeWayne, his buddy from pee-wee football. DeWayne asked what he was doing.
Just chillin' with my ol' boy, Trayvon said. Trayvon's dad was dating a woman who lived there, a woman named Brandy, and it was looking serious. If he had to change high schools again to move up there, he said, it would be a'ight.
When he got to the gate of the complex, he could have slipped through the pedestrian gate. It wasn't locked. Even after the shooting, they never locked it. Florida is geared to cars, and Trayvon was still a BMX kind of guy. He tooled all around Miami Gardens on that little bike, standing on the pegs or doing the cat-walk wheelie on one wheel. And there was no sidewalk most of the way, just a lumpy depression in the grass, so why walk along the road? A man on foot could walk through trees and sand halfway to the 7-Eleven.


Read more: Trayvon Martin Family Interview - Trayvon Martin Aftermath - Esquire http://www.esquire.com/features/americans-2012/trayvon-martin-1212#ixzz2DXLaLFzI

Published in the December 2012 issue
He wanted something sweet, he wanted to get out of the apartment for a while. He slid open the glass door of the patio and slipped out into the steamy Florida twilight, an ordinary thing on an ordinary night.
Trayvon Martin was three weeks past seventeen that day, which was the day a stranger named George Zimmerman shot him through the heart. He was growing so fast, he'd stretched out like a rubber band, 158 pounds on a five-eleven frame, so long and thin everyone teased him: Boy, you too skinny to take a breath.
He was wearing the hoodie he always wore, lost in his music like he always was. People teased him about that, too. Next door to his uncle Stephen's house, a modest ranch house where he often spent the night, lived an old lady who called him Mouse.
Don't you ever talk? Say something.
Trayvon would just grin.
He strolled down the narrow cement path between two buildings. Trayvon didn't live there, he was just visiting, so it was all fairly new to him. Double glass doors faced the area from apartments on both sides, little white fences separated each little yard, central-air units hummed, televisions lit the curtains with their blue glow. Sometimes a Big Wheel tricycle sat forgotten in the path.
The complex looked nice. The buildings were two or three stories, with neat little lawns with neat little borders. No visible garbage bins, a clubhouse, a little lake. Not as nice as the luxury complex just across the no-man's-land where no one had bothered to build a sidewalk, but pretty nice for a kid from the modest side of Miami Gardens. Last night he had a long talk with DeWayne, his buddy from pee-wee football. DeWayne asked what he was doing.
Just chillin' with my ol' boy, Trayvon said. Trayvon's dad was dating a woman who lived there, a woman named Brandy, and it was looking serious. If he had to change high schools again to move up there, he said, it would be a'ight.
When he got to the gate of the complex, he could have slipped through the pedestrian gate. It wasn't locked. Even after the shooting, they never locked it. Florida is geared to cars, and Trayvon was still a BMX kind of guy. He tooled all around Miami Gardens on that little bike, standing on the pegs or doing the cat-walk wheelie on one wheel. And there was no sidewalk most of the way, just a lumpy depression in the grass, so why walk along the road? A man on foot could walk through trees and sand halfway to the 7-Eleven.


Read more: Trayvon Martin Family Interview - Trayvon Martin Aftermath - Esquire http://www.esquire.com/features/americans-2012/trayvon-martin-1212#ixzz2DXLaLFzI

Published in the December 2012 issue
He wanted something sweet, he wanted to get out of the apartment for a while. He slid open the glass door of the patio and slipped out into the steamy Florida twilight, an ordinary thing on an ordinary night.
Trayvon Martin was three weeks past seventeen that day, which was the day a stranger named George Zimmerman shot him through the heart. He was growing so fast, he'd stretched out like a rubber band, 158 pounds on a five-eleven frame, so long and thin everyone teased him: Boy, you too skinny to take a breath.
He was wearing the hoodie he always wore, lost in his music like he always was. People teased him about that, too. Next door to his uncle Stephen's house, a modest ranch house where he often spent the night, lived an old lady who called him Mouse.
Don't you ever talk? Say something.
Trayvon would just grin.
He strolled down the narrow cement path between two buildings. Trayvon didn't live there, he was just visiting, so it was all fairly new to him. Double glass doors faced the area from apartments on both sides, little white fences separated each little yard, central-air units hummed, televisions lit the curtains with their blue glow. Sometimes a Big Wheel tricycle sat forgotten in the path.
The complex looked nice. The buildings were two or three stories, with neat little lawns with neat little borders. No visible garbage bins, a clubhouse, a little lake. Not as nice as the luxury complex just across the no-man's-land where no one had bothered to build a sidewalk, but pretty nice for a kid from the modest side of Miami Gardens. Last night he had a long talk with DeWayne, his buddy from pee-wee football. DeWayne asked what he was doing.
Just chillin' with my ol' boy, Trayvon said. Trayvon's dad was dating a woman who lived there, a woman named Brandy, and it was looking serious. If he had to change high schools again to move up there, he said, it would be a'ight.
When he got to the gate of the complex, he could have slipped through the pedestrian gate. It wasn't locked. Even after the shooting, they never locked it. Florida is geared to cars, and Trayvon was still a BMX kind of guy. He tooled all around Miami Gardens on that little bike, standing on the pegs or doing the cat-walk wheelie on one wheel. And there was no sidewalk most of the way, just a lumpy depression in the grass, so why walk along the road? A man on foot could walk through trees and sand halfway to the 7-Eleven.


Read more: Trayvon Martin Family Interview - Trayvon Martin Aftermath - Esquire http://www.esquire.com/features/americans-2012/trayvon-martin-1212#ixzz2DXLaLFzI

Published in the December 2012 issue
He wanted something sweet, he wanted to get out of the apartment for a while. He slid open the glass door of the patio and slipped out into the steamy Florida twilight, an ordinary thing on an ordinary night.
Trayvon Martin was three weeks past seventeen that day, which was the day a stranger named George Zimmerman shot him through the heart. He was growing so fast, he'd stretched out like a rubber band, 158 pounds on a five-eleven frame, so long and thin everyone teased him: Boy, you too skinny to take a breath.
He was wearing the hoodie he always wore, lost in his music like he always was. People teased him about that, too. Next door to his uncle Stephen's house, a modest ranch house where he often spent the night, lived an old lady who called him Mouse.
Don't you ever talk? Say something.
Trayvon would just grin.
He strolled down the narrow cement path between two buildings. Trayvon didn't live there, he was just visiting, so it was all fairly new to him. Double glass doors faced the area from apartments on both sides, little white fences separated each little yard, central-air units hummed, televisions lit the curtains with their blue glow. Sometimes a Big Wheel tricycle sat forgotten in the path.
The complex looked nice. The buildings were two or three stories, with neat little lawns with neat little borders. No visible garbage bins, a clubhouse, a little lake. Not as nice as the luxury complex just across the no-man's-land where no one had bothered to build a sidewalk, but pretty nice for a kid from the modest side of Miami Gardens. Last night he had a long talk with DeWayne, his buddy from pee-wee football. DeWayne asked what he was doing.
Just chillin' with my ol' boy, Trayvon said. Trayvon's dad was dating a woman who lived there, a woman named Brandy, and it was looking serious. If he had to change high schools again to move up there, he said, it would be a'ight.
When he got to the gate of the complex, he could have slipped through the pedestrian gate. It wasn't locked. Even after the shooting, they never locked it. Florida is geared to cars, and Trayvon was still a BMX kind of guy. He tooled all around Miami Gardens on that little bike, standing on the pegs or doing the cat-walk wheelie on one wheel. And there was no sidewalk most of the way, just a lumpy depression in the grass, so why walk along the road? A man on foot could walk through trees and sand halfway to the 7-Eleven.


Read more: Trayvon Martin Family Interview - Trayvon Martin Aftermath - Esquire http://www.esquire.com/features/americans-2012/trayvon-martin-1212#ixzz2DXLaLFzI

Published in the December 2012 issue
He wanted something sweet, he wanted to get out of the apartment for a while. He slid open the glass door of the patio and slipped out into the steamy Florida twilight, an ordinary thing on an ordinary night.
Trayvon Martin was three weeks past seventeen that day, which was the day a stranger named George Zimmerman shot him through the heart. He was growing so fast, he'd stretched out like a rubber band, 158 pounds on a five-eleven frame, so long and thin everyone teased him: Boy, you too skinny to take a breath.
He was wearing the hoodie he always wore, lost in his music like he always was. People teased him about that, too. Next door to his uncle Stephen's house, a modest ranch house where he often spent the night, lived an old lady who called him Mouse.
Don't you ever talk? Say something.
Trayvon would just grin.
He strolled down the narrow cement path between two buildings. Trayvon didn't live there, he was just visiting, so it was all fairly new to him. Double glass doors faced the area from apartments on both sides, little white fences separated each little yard, central-air units hummed, televisions lit the curtains with their blue glow. Sometimes a Big Wheel tricycle sat forgotten in the path.
The complex looked nice. The buildings were two or three stories, with neat little lawns with neat little borders. No visible garbage bins, a clubhouse, a little lake. Not as nice as the luxury complex just across the no-man's-land where no one had bothered to build a sidewalk, but pretty nice for a kid from the modest side of Miami Gardens. Last night he had a long talk with DeWayne, his buddy from pee-wee football. DeWayne asked what he was doing.
Just chillin' with my ol' boy, Trayvon said. Trayvon's dad was dating a woman who lived there, a woman named Brandy, and it was looking serious. If he had to change high schools again to move up there, he said, it would be a'ight.
When he got to the gate of the complex, he could have slipped through the pedestrian gate. It wasn't locked. Even after the shooting, they never locked it. Florida is geared to cars, and Trayvon was still a BMX kind of guy. He tooled all around Miami Gardens on that little bike, standing on the pegs or doing the cat-walk wheelie on one wheel. And there was no sidewalk most of the way, just a lumpy depression in the grass, so why walk along the road? A man on foot could walk through trees and sand halfway to the 7-Eleven.


Read more: Trayvon Martin Family Interview - Trayvon Martin Aftermath - Esquire http://www.esquire.com/features/americans-2012/trayvon-martin-1212#ixzz2DXLaLFzI

Published in the December 2012 issue
He wanted something sweet, he wanted to get out of the apartment for a while. He slid open the glass door of the patio and slipped out into the steamy Florida twilight, an ordinary thing on an ordinary night.
Trayvon Martin was three weeks past seventeen that day, which was the day a stranger named George Zimmerman shot him through the heart. He was growing so fast, he'd stretched out like a rubber band, 158 pounds on a five-eleven frame, so long and thin everyone teased him: Boy, you too skinny to take a breath.
He was wearing the hoodie he always wore, lost in his music like he always was. People teased him about that, too. Next door to his uncle Stephen's house, a modest ranch house where he often spent the night, lived an old lady who called him Mouse.
Don't you ever talk? Say something.
Trayvon would just grin.
He strolled down the narrow cement path between two buildings. Trayvon didn't live there, he was just visiting, so it was all fairly new to him. Double glass doors faced the area from apartments on both sides, little white fences separated each little yard, central-air units hummed, televisions lit the curtains with their blue glow. Sometimes a Big Wheel tricycle sat forgotten in the path.
The complex looked nice. The buildings were two or three stories, with neat little lawns with neat little borders. No visible garbage bins, a clubhouse, a little lake. Not as nice as the luxury complex just across the no-man's-land where no one had bothered to build a sidewalk, but pretty nice for a kid from the modest side of Miami Gardens. Last night he had a long talk with DeWayne, his buddy from pee-wee football. DeWayne asked what he was doing.
Just chillin' with my ol' boy, Trayvon said. Trayvon's dad was dating a woman who lived there, a woman named Brandy, and it was looking serious. If he had to change high schools again to move up there, he said, it would be a'ight.
When he got to the gate of the complex, he could have slipped through the pedestrian gate. It wasn't locked. Even after the shooting, they never locked it. Florida is geared to cars, and Trayvon was still a BMX kind of guy. He tooled all around Miami Gardens on that little bike, standing on the pegs or doing the cat-walk wheelie on one wheel. And there was no sidewalk most of the way, just a lumpy depression in the grass, so why walk along the road? A man on foot could walk through trees and sand halfway to the 7-Eleven.


Read more: Trayvon Martin Family Interview - Trayvon Martin Aftermath - Esquire http://www.esquire.com/features/americans-2012/trayvon-martin-1212#ixzz2DXLaLFzI

Published in the December 2012 issue
He wanted something sweet, he wanted to get out of the apartment for a while. He slid open the glass door of the patio and slipped out into the steamy Florida twilight, an ordinary thing on an ordinary night.
Trayvon Martin was three weeks past seventeen that day, which was the day a stranger named George Zimmerman shot him through the heart. He was growing so fast, he'd stretched out like a rubber band, 158 pounds on a five-eleven frame, so long and thin everyone teased him: Boy, you too skinny to take a breath.
He was wearing the hoodie he always wore, lost in his music like he always was. People teased him about that, too. Next door to his uncle Stephen's house, a modest ranch house where he often spent the night, lived an old lady who called him Mouse.
Don't you ever talk? Say something.
Trayvon would just grin.
He strolled down the narrow cement path between two buildings. Trayvon didn't live there, he was just visiting, so it was all fairly new to him. Double glass doors faced the area from apartments on both sides, little white fences separated each little yard, central-air units hummed, televisions lit the curtains with their blue glow. Sometimes a Big Wheel tricycle sat forgotten in the path.
The complex looked nice. The buildings were two or three stories, with neat little lawns with neat little borders. No visible garbage bins, a clubhouse, a little lake. Not as nice as the luxury complex just across the no-man's-land where no one had bothered to build a sidewalk, but pretty nice for a kid from the modest side of Miami Gardens. Last night he had a long talk with DeWayne, his buddy from pee-wee football. DeWayne asked what he was doing.
Just chillin' with my ol' boy, Trayvon said. Trayvon's dad was dating a woman who lived there, a woman named Brandy, and it was looking serious. If he had to change high schools again to move up there, he said, it would be a'ight.
When he got to the gate of the complex, he could have slipped through the pedestrian gate. It wasn't locked. Even after the shooting, they never locked it. Florida is geared to cars, and Trayvon was still a BMX kind of guy. He tooled all around Miami Gardens on that little bike, standing on the pegs or doing the cat-walk wheelie on one wheel. And there was no sidewalk most of the way, just a lumpy depression in the grass, so why walk along the road? A man on foot could walk through trees and sand halfway to the 7-Eleven.


Read more: Trayvon Martin Family Interview - Trayvon Martin Aftermath - Esquire http://www.esquire.com/features/americans-2012/trayvon-martin-1212#ixzz2DXLaLFzI

Published in the December 2012 issue
He wanted something sweet, he wanted to get out of the apartment for a while. He slid open the glass door of the patio and slipped out into the steamy Florida twilight, an ordinary thing on an ordinary night.
Trayvon Martin was three weeks past seventeen that day, which was the day a stranger named George Zimmerman shot him through the heart. He was growing so fast, he'd stretched out like a rubber band, 158 pounds on a five-eleven frame, so long and thin everyone teased him: Boy, you too skinny to take a breath.
He was wearing the hoodie he always wore, lost in his music like he always was. People teased him about that, too. Next door to his uncle Stephen's house, a modest ranch house where he often spent the night, lived an old lady who called him Mouse.
Don't you ever talk? Say something.
Trayvon would just grin.
He strolled down the narrow cement path between two buildings. Trayvon didn't live there, he was just visiting, so it was all fairly new to him. Double glass doors faced the area from apartments on both sides, little white fences separated each little yard, central-air units hummed, televisions lit the curtains with their blue glow. Sometimes a Big Wheel tricycle sat forgotten in the path.
The complex looked nice. The buildings were two or three stories, with neat little lawns with neat little borders. No visible garbage bins, a clubhouse, a little lake. Not as nice as the luxury complex just across the no-man's-land where no one had bothered to build a sidewalk, but pretty nice for a kid from the modest side of Miami Gardens. Last night he had a long talk with DeWayne, his buddy from pee-wee football. DeWayne asked what he was doing.
Just chillin' with my ol' boy, Trayvon said. Trayvon's dad was dating a woman who lived there, a woman named Brandy, and it was looking serious. If he had to change high schools again to move up there, he said, it would be a'ight.
When he got to the gate of the complex, he could have slipped through the pedestrian gate. It wasn't locked. Even after the shooting, they never locked it. Florida is geared to cars, and Trayvon was still a BMX kind of guy. He tooled all around Miami Gardens on that little bike, standing on the pegs or doing the cat-walk wheelie on one wheel. And there was no sidewalk most of the way, just a lumpy depression in the grass, so why walk along the road? A man on foot could walk through trees and sand halfway to the 7-Eleven.


Read more: Trayvon Martin Family Interview - Trayvon Martin Aftermath - Esquire http://www.esquire.com/features/americans-2012/trayvon-martin-1212#ixzz2DXLaLFzI

Published in the December 2012 issue
He wanted something sweet, he wanted to get out of the apartment for a while. He slid open the glass door of the patio and slipped out into the steamy Florida twilight, an ordinary thing on an ordinary night.
Trayvon Martin was three weeks past seventeen that day, which was the day a stranger named George Zimmerman shot him through the heart. He was growing so fast, he'd stretched out like a rubber band, 158 pounds on a five-eleven frame, so long and thin everyone teased him: Boy, you too skinny to take a breath.
He was wearing the hoodie he always wore, lost in his music like he always was. People teased him about that, too. Next door to his uncle Stephen's house, a modest ranch house where he often spent the night, lived an old lady who called him Mouse.
Don't you ever talk? Say something.
Trayvon would just grin.
He strolled down the narrow cement path between two buildings. Trayvon didn't live there, he was just visiting, so it was all fairly new to him. Double glass doors faced the area from apartments on both sides, little white fences separated each little yard, central-air units hummed, televisions lit the curtains with their blue glow. Sometimes a Big Wheel tricycle sat forgotten in the path.
The complex looked nice. The buildings were two or three stories, with neat little lawns with neat little borders. No visible garbage bins, a clubhouse, a little lake. Not as nice as the luxury complex just across the no-man's-land where no one had bothered to build a sidewalk, but pretty nice for a kid from the modest side of Miami Gardens. Last night he had a long talk with DeWayne, his buddy from pee-wee football. DeWayne asked what he was doing.
Just chillin' with my ol' boy, Trayvon said. Trayvon's dad was dating a woman who lived there, a woman named Brandy, and it was looking serious. If he had to change high schools again to move up there, he said, it would be a'ight.
When he got to the gate of the complex, he could have slipped through the pedestrian gate. It wasn't locked. Even after the shooting, they never locked it. Florida is geared to cars, and Trayvon was still a BMX kind of guy. He tooled all around Miami Gardens on that little bike, standing on the pegs or doing the cat-walk wheelie on one wheel. And there was no sidewalk most of the way, just a lumpy depression in the grass, so why walk along the road? A man on foot could walk through trees and sand halfway to the 7-Eleven.


Read more: Trayvon Martin Family Interview - Trayvon Martin Aftermath - Esquire http://www.esquire.com/features/americans-2012/trayvon-martin-1212#ixzz2DXLaLFzI

Published in the December 2012 issue
He wanted something sweet, he wanted to get out of the apartment for a while. He slid open the glass door of the patio and slipped out into the steamy Florida twilight, an ordinary thing on an ordinary night.
Trayvon Martin was three weeks past seventeen that day, which was the day a stranger named George Zimmerman shot him through the heart. He was growing so fast, he'd stretched out like a rubber band, 158 pounds on a five-eleven frame, so long and thin everyone teased him: Boy, you too skinny to take a breath.
He was wearing the hoodie he always wore, lost in his music like he always was. People teased him about that, too. Next door to his uncle Stephen's house, a modest ranch house where he often spent the night, lived an old lady who called him Mouse.
Don't you ever talk? Say something.
Trayvon would just grin.
He strolled down the narrow cement path between two buildings. Trayvon didn't live there, he was just visiting, so it was all fairly new to him. Double glass doors faced the area from apartments on both sides, little white fences separated each little yard, central-air units hummed, televisions lit the curtains with their blue glow. Sometimes a Big Wheel tricycle sat forgotten in the path.
The complex looked nice. The buildings were two or three stories, with neat little lawns with neat little borders. No visible garbage bins, a clubhouse, a little lake. Not as nice as the luxury complex just across the no-man's-land where no one had bothered to build a sidewalk, but pretty nice for a kid from the modest side of Miami Gardens. Last night he had a long talk with DeWayne, his buddy from pee-wee football. DeWayne asked what he was doing.
Just chillin' with my ol' boy, Trayvon said. Trayvon's dad was dating a woman who lived there, a woman named Brandy, and it was looking serious. If he had to change high schools again to move up there, he said, it would be a'ight.
When he got to the gate of the complex, he could have slipped through the pedestrian gate. It wasn't locked. Even after the shooting, they never locked it. Florida is geared to cars, and Trayvon was still a BMX kind of guy. He tooled all around Miami Gardens on that little bike, standing on the pegs or doing the cat-walk wheelie on one wheel. And there was no sidewalk most of the way, just a lumpy depression in the grass, so why walk along the road? A man on foot could walk through trees and sand halfway to the 7-Eleven.


Read more: Trayvon Martin Family Interview - Trayvon Martin Aftermath - Esquire http://www.esquire.com/features/americans-2012/trayvon-martin-1212#ixzz2DXLaLFzI

Detective in George Zimmerman case hires Casey Anthony lawyer

Chris Serino (right)

Published: November 19, 2012 

By FRANCES ROBLES — The Miami Herald

MIAMI — The lead detective in the George Zimmerman murder trial hired famed lawyer Jose Baez to represent him as he maneuvers the next steps of the contentious high-profile case, The Miami Herald has learned.

Chris Serino, a former Sanford Police major-crimes investigator, became a controversial figure when evidence revealed that the detective had quietly filed an arrest affidavit a few weeks after the shooting death of teenager Trayvon Martin, even as his chief publicly said there wasn't enough evidence to make a case.

A letter was sent last week by Baez to Dean Ringer Morton & Lawton, the law firm that sometimes represents the city of Sanford, advising that he will represent Serino in the upcoming proceedings. It is highly unusual for investigators to approach a murder trial with their own counsel.
Baez, who gained fame with the 2008 Casey Anthony case, declined to comment. A spokesman for Baez confirmed the letter and said Serino felt he needed an attorney to look out for his interests in the next stage of the case, but that he does not plan to file a lawsuit.    READ MORE

Read more here: http://www.macon.com/2012/11/19/2256510/detective-in-george-zimmerman.html#storylink=cpy

 

Change For Trayvon: A New Website

Tracy Martin and Sybrina Fulton have started a new website, Change For Trayvon, that is dedicated to reviewing the Stand Your Ground laws. The Mission Statement: The purpose of Change for Trayvon is to give his family a voice in the political process. Your support will help engage the discussion across the country regarding stand-your-ground laws and the need to revise them so that there is required judicial or prosecutorial review before decisions are made. We need your help to change the laws which keep parents like ourselves from finding peace. -Tracy Martin 30,000 mothers and fathers lost their children to gun violence. The Change for Trayvon movement will shine the light on stand-your-ground laws across the nation. These laws allow individuals to shoot first and ask questions later. For more information email us at: info@changefortrayvon.com READ MORE

Complete Trayvon Phone Logs PDF

CLICK HERE TO READ THE LOGS

ScreaminJ's Collection -- Witness Spreadsheet

Trayvon Martin whole case spreadsheet

The entire collection

The 'Whole' Story of Trayvon Martin at 7 Eleven

Published on May 27, 2012 by DiwataMan2

6:21:54 Trayvon is seen outside the store traveling from the East to the West to enter 7 Eleven

6:24:32 Two minutes later Trayvon leaves the store but is not seen outside heading back East

6:25:53 The three stooges enter

6:26:03 Curly has money already in hand

6:28:00 Curly walks away with blunts

6:28:30 Curly leaves store with blunts

6:29:19 The last of the three stooges goes to leave the store as Trayvon is seen outside heading back East

6:29:23 Last frame of Trayvon

Total time in store apx. 2 minutes 30 seconds

Total time 7 minutes 29 seconds